


Skymark, Fading

by Kogiopsis



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, SANDERSON Brandon - Works, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: CFSWF, Gen, WoR spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kogiopsis/pseuds/Kogiopsis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the sunlight he can see that Kaladin’s tan skin is ashen and has a sheen of sweat, and his chest moves barely enough to be noticeable.<br/>Renarin is suddenly, brutally, afraid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skymark, Fading

**Author's Note:**

> A very, very belated Cosmere Challenge fic that got away from me, and which I then drifted away from in turn as other obligations arose. Hopefully it's worth the wait.  
> Beta reading by Swamp Spirit and FeatherWriter!  
> All medical inaccuracies are my fault and should be handwaved with 'magic'. I'm an ecologist, not a doctor, and there's a good reason for that.

After the duel and Kaladin’s arrest, it’s Teft who organizes the schedule, and while all the other members of Bridge Four have shifts guarding the prison in pairs, Renarin is exempt.  He’s not surprised; Teft has never been friendly to him, never treated him like part of the crew, and of course he lacks the others’ history with Kaladin.  The man has no reason to assume he would want the extra guard duty at all.  In truth, he can’t explain why he _does_ even to himself until he goes to visit Adolin, who has locked himself in as a form of protest, and the two bridgemen at the door stare blankly past him as he enters.  Their stances are perfect, their uniforms crisp, their spear-hafts polished: they are the picture of discipline, despite not actually being on duty.  It is a display of of faith.

Convincing Teft that he wants to join the guard rotation is the closest Renarin has ever come to using his status against the bridgemen.  He doesn’t do it overtly, but chooses his words carefully and borrows as much of his brother’s commanding air as he dares, then curls his hands into fists to keep them from shaking as he stares Teft down.  Staring would be more effective if Renarin could keep eye contact, but he fixes his gaze on Teft’s hairline and perseveres.

The older man grudgingly concedes, as Renarin knew he must, and Renarin joins the ranks of the bridgemen keeping watch over Kaladin’s imprisonment.  Even standing outside the doors he’s not quite sure what they are – an honor guard?  Protection, against nobles who fear the darkeyed captain who threatened their power?  A demonstration of solidarity and loyalty?

It doesn’t matter what it is, though.  What matters is that they’re standing guard for Captain Kaladin.

***

A week and a half after the duel, during Renarin’s shift on guard, yelling echoes from within the prison.  He can’t make out words, just urgency in the tone of voices – and then one of his father’s soldiers bursts through the door, short of breath.

“He won’t wake up!” he says.  “That captain of yours, he can’t be roused.  He’s still breathing but – we think he’s ill.  Run and get a surgeon, quick!”

Renarin is frozen for a moment, but his companion Drehy is not.  “Brightlord Renarin, it might be best if you go.  I can’t command a surgeon, but you can.”

Renarin nods, and then takes off like there’s a highstorm on his heels.  Now is not the time for dignity or even for fear of his own blood weakness – not when he can do some good for the man who saved his family twice over.

The surgeons’ building is not far from the prison, but Renarin is still out of breath when he bursts through the door.  He bends double, leaning on his knees and breathing deeply, holding up a hand to ask for patience.

“What are you doing here, soldier?” one of the surgeons demands sharply.  “We’ve no time to spare for sprained ankles; Brightlord Havrom needs our attention-“

Renarin straightens, and tugs on his Bridge Four uniform to neaten it.

“I am Renarin Kholin, and I need the assistance of a surgeon immediately.  The Captain of my father’s guard is ill.  I ask only for one of you to accompany me; the rest may remain and tend to Brightlord Havrom.”

The surgeon who had spoken before frowns.  “A prince, in a guard’s uniform?  A likely sto-“

“Nalod,” another surgeon says firmly.  “Look at his eyes.  He is no common footsoldier.  Or would you have him summon a Shardblade and hold it at your throat to prove it?”

The man named Nalod pales.  Renarin takes stock of the second speaker: balding, of average height, wearing spectacles.  His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows in a businesslike manner.

“My name is Lirin, Brightlord Renarin.  You said the Captain of Highprince Dalinar’s guard requires attention?”

“Yes,” Renarin replies, relieved that this man seems amenable.  “Captain Kaladin Stormblessed.  He’s in the prison at the moment; I’ll take you to him.”

Lirin’s eyes widen for a moment, and then he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and squares his shoulders.  “Do you know his symptoms?  I would prefer to be prepared so as not to waste time sending back for necessities.”

“V - very little,” Renarin says, taken aback by the surgeon’s sudden brisk manner.  “Only that he won’t wake up.  I left too soon to hear more.

Lirin nods and begins to gather tools and bottles into a bag.  “Right, then.  Brightlord, if you wouldn’t mind carrying that stretcher with us.  I pray that we won’t need it, but it is best to be prepared for the worst.”

Renarin nods and picks up the bundle of wood and canvas Lirin indicates, and they leave the building at a brisk walk.  It increases to a jog as they come within sight of the prison and Drehy waves frantically at them, and the surgeon is nearly running ahead of Renarin down the prison hallway to Kaladin’s cell.

The door is already open, both prison guards waiting outside and Renarin’s brother Adolin within next to the cot where Kaladin lies still, his head at a strange angle.  Adolin steps back when the surgeon approaches and kneels at the unconscious man’s head, laying one hand across his forehead.

“We came to bring him the evening meal but he didn’t respond,” one of the guards says.  “Tried calling his name and even shaking him, but nothing works.”

“This man saved my father’s life and that of the king,” Adolin adds with quiet vehemence.  “If there is anything at all you can do to help, surgeon, I order you to do it.”

The surgeon moves his hand down, holding it above Kaladin’s mouth, then sits back on his heels.

“He’s feverish and breathing shallowly, but there’s hope.  We have to get him out of this prison, though.  He needs better care than he can get here.”

“One of Father’s scribes was married recently and moved out of her room in the compound,” Renarin says.  “Would that do?”

Lirin looks up at him, and Renarin thinks he sees gratitude there.  “Yes, that will suffice.  Brightlord, if you’d just hand me the stretcher…”

It takes Lirin and Adolin both to lift Kaladin onto the stretcher, but they manage.  Renarin picks up the surgeon’s bag and follows them outside, where Drehy joins the group.  In the sunlight he can see that Kaladin’s tan skin is ashen and has a sheen of sweat, and his chest moves barely enough to be noticeable.

Renarin is suddenly, brutally, afraid.

***

The empty quarters are small and bare, one room with a bed, a table, and two chairs.  Lirin directs Renarin to place his bag on the table as he and Adolin move Kaladin to the bed, then sends Adolin out of the room to fetch cold water and spare cloths.  He speaks brusquely, hardly seeming to notice or care the rank of those he orders about, and Renarin finds himself obeying automatically.  At his instruction, Renarin helps him to remove Kaladin’s clothes, leaving only his undergarments.  When Adolin returns, they soak cold cloths to lay across Kaladin’s forehead and behind his neck.

“It might bring his fever down,” Lirin says, looking down at the unconscious spearman.  “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on him.  Perhaps I can figure out what caused this.”

It’s a dismissal, and Renarin turns to make for the door but it stopped by Adolin’s hand on his elbow.

“How do we know we can trust you?” Adolin asks Lirin, eyes narrowed.  “There are many people who want this man dead.”

Lirin’s lips twitch upwards in a humorless facsimile of a smile.  “I assure you, Brightlord, I mean the Captain no harm.  I will do everything I can to get him well again.  If you don’t believe me, send one of those spearmen in to keep watch over me.”

“I’ll do that,” Adolin says, suspicion still in his tone, but he leads Renarin out into the hall nonetheless.  The shift of bridgemen has changed, and instead of Drehy they find two men Renarin doesn’t know outside.

“One of you, go in there and keep an eye on that surgeon,” Adolin says as the men salute.

They walk together to Renarin’s rooms, which are closest, shoulders brushing the whole way in silent solidarity.  At his own door Renarin turns to look at his brother and for the first time notices that Adolin looks terrible – hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his chin and clothing in stark disarray.

“Adolin,” Renarin says quietly.  “He’s saved all of us at least once.”

“I know.”  Adolin’s voice is quiet and rough-edged.  “We won’t let him down.”

***

Bridge Four simply shifts its guard duty to Kaladin’s sickroom instead of the prison, but even when he’s not assigned, Renarin can’t stay away.  He checks in every time he passes the door, hoping to see less sweat on Kaladin’s forehead or even see him sitting up and taking food, but without luck.  The fifth time he opens the door, Lirin turns around and catches his eye.

"If you have an idle pair of hands, I could use help," he says.   Renarin nods, and the surgeon gestures to a chair.  He finds himself sitting at Kaladin's bedside, mopping sweat from his bodyguard's - his Captain's - forehead.

It assuages some of Renarin’s fear to be there and contributing in some way, even if he can only do so little.  Sometimes he lays his hand across Kaladin’s skin and feels his temperature.  Always, _always_ , it is like holding his palm over one of Aunt Navani’s heating fabrials.

Renarin does leave for his training with Zahel, but after an hour the gruff swordsmaster sends him away.

“You’re not focused,” he says.  “Come back when your mind is set on your Shardblade, and not flitting off with the birds.”

For a brief moment Renarin is _glad_ of Kaladin’s illness, because it means he doesn’t have to handle the Blade – but only a moment, and he feels sick with guilt for hours after.

***

On the fourth day Kaladin wakes, briefly.  Lirin is out of the room and Renarin away from the bed, wetting the cloth again.  He turns when he hears rustling and sees Kaladin trying to prop himself up on his elbows, leaning sideways towards the edge of the bed.

“Too warm,” he says, then coughs.  Renarin drops the cloth into the basin of water and hurries back, pulling his chair up close to the mattress.

“Help me up,” Kaladin says, but his arms shake as he tries to support his own weight.  Renarin takes gentle hold of his shoulders and pushes him back down flat.

“You’re not well, Captain,” he says, and Kaladin looks at him for the first time.  “I can give you water, but you must stay there.”  Kaladin frowns, then nods, and Renarin takes his own glass from the floor next to the bed and holds it to the man’s lips.  He tilts it too quickly and some of the water dribbles down Kaladin’s chin, but most of it makes it into his mouth and he swallows.

“Thank you,” Kaladin says, relaxing back into the pillow.  “I think I might – sleep more….” His eyes fall closed again, mouth hanging slack.  Renarin sits transfixed, watching him breathe, until Lirin returns.

“He woke up,” he tells the older man without preamble.  “Not for long, but enough time for me to give him water.”

Lirin sighs, setting down the pitcher of water he’d gone to fetch and dropping heavily into the room’s second chair.  He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.  His eyes are fixed on Kaladin’s sleeping face.

There’s a knock at the door, and then it opens to reveal one of the bridgemen, though not one assigned to Kaladin’s guard.

“Brightlord Renarin, sorry to disturb you, but Highprince Dalinar asked me to remind you that your family dines in the king’s compound tonight.”  He bobs his head to the surgeon, then to Renarin as the prince stands.  On his way out the door, Renarin stops.

“If – if there’s any change in his condition,” he says, “please send word.”

The surgeon sketches an awkward, seated bow.  “As you wish, Brightlord.”

***

At the king’s feast, Renarin picks at his food and tries to block out the wash of jovial conversation around him.  His thoughts stray back to Captain Kaladin, lying wan and weak in a blank room, asleep too long to be healthy.  What could lay low a man called Stormblessed, who if rumor was to be believed had survived being tied to a roof in a highstorm, who had fought off the Assassin in White alone?

What would it mean if he died of this illness?

It wasn’t as if Kaladin’s life hadn’t been in danger before:  as a bridgeman in Sadeas’s forces, fighting the Parshendi away from Renarin’s father and brother with only a spear, throwing himself between the Kholins and danger at every opportunity –

The image of Kaladin sliding on his knees in front of Renarin, slamming his hands together on the flat of Brightlord Relis’s Shardblade, its edge stopping a mere handsbreadth from his own skull, rises unbidden in Renarin’s memory.  It could have been nothing more than a bodyguard’s duty but… it hadn’t been duty alone that had motivated Kaladin to permit him to join Bridge Four, or at least Renarin believed that it hadn’t.

 _If any lighteyes could fit in here, he could_.  That was what Kaladin had said; words not meant for Renarin’s ears, but he’d heard them anyway.  Kaladin saw a value in him that no one else outside of his family ever had.  Even Zahel hadn’t chosen to train him in the sword freely, but had been pushed into it by Adolin, and for all that he was a good swordsmaster the shame of not being chosen still weighs on Renarin.

Renarin sets down his fork and looks up at the table full of people for the first time, eyes skimming over the familiar faces of his noble peers.  None of them turn towards him for more than a cursory glance.  He thinks back to his first evening washing dishes with Bridge Four and the wary stares of the bridgemen.  At least they were honest in their dislike.  Lighteyes never say what they mean, are never direct in their emotions, and navigating them is exhausting for Renarin.  He looks down at his hands, limp in his lap under the table, and wishes he were holding a spear.

Someone behind him clears their throat, and Renarin turns in a quick twitch.

“Begging your pardon, Brightlord.  You asked to be notified if Captain Kaladin’s condition changed?  The surgeon says he’s come awake.”

***

The first thing Renarin notices is that Kaladin’s hands have been manacled.  The second is that though Kaladin is drinking from a glass Lirin holds, his eyes are fixed on the wall as if the surgeon wasn’t even there.

“You have to drink, son,” he says.  “Fevers dehydrate; you know that as well as I do.”  Kaladin’s head bobs in a nod, but he still doesn’t speak.  Renarin closes the door as quietly as he can.

“Kal, please-“ Lirin starts to say, but cuts off as Kaladin’s eyes flick to Renarin and then back to the wall.  The surgeon turns and nods in greeting.

“Brightlord.  I didn’t expect you to arrive so soon.”

There’s no real censure in his tone, but Renarin’s ears heat with embarrassment anyway.

“I don’t care for feasts, sir,” he says, standing stiffly near the door.  “It seemed I might do more good here.”

“Right, then.”  Lirin beckons him over to the bed.  “The Captain is still complaining of too much heat.  The best we can do now is cool his skin, so –“ he passes Renarin a cloth and a bowl of water.  “You take his left side, and I’ll take his right.”

Renarin pauses, frowning.  “Sir?  Wouldn’t it be better to free his hands and let him do it himself?”

Lirin sighs.  “I can’t un-cuff him.  Your father’s orders, passed down from the king.  A sick prisoner is still a prisoner, especially when he’s dangerous.”  He glances to the glyphs scarred into Kaladin’s forehead.   “Besides, in his condition there would be parts he couldn’t reach anyway.  Best if we do it, and efficiently.”

Renarin nods and follows Lirin’s lead, wetting his cloth and running it down Kaladin’s chest and arms and studiously not looking at the man’s face.  Speaking about him as if he weren’t in the room is bad enough, but bathing him like he was a sword to be polished feels almost intolerably rude.   Renarin only hopes Kaladin will still look him in the eye when this is over.  Under his hands, the other man shivers – maybe from social discomfort, or maybe just from the cold of the water on his skin.  Renarin works his way methodically down to Kaladin’s waist, then along the length of his legs.  When he looks up, Lirin is brushing the curly hair away from Kaladin’s sweat-sticky forehead and as Renarin watches, he kisses the center of the _shash_ brand. Kaladin turns his head away, as if Lirin were not there at all.

"How's Bridge Four?" he asks, voice rough.  Renarin glances to Lirin, then back to Kaladin, unsure, but Kaladin's dark eyes are fixed on him so intently that he feels compelled to answer.

"Guarding your door day and night, Captain, as they - as we guarded the prison."

Kaladin's eyebrows lift.  "They have time for that?"

"Sergeant Teft made time, sir."

"If you're not on duty, Renarin; you don't have to call me 'sir'."

Renarin shifts his feet until they are pressed together and meets Kaladin's gaze fully.  "No, sir, but that is my choice."

The silence in the room is taut until Kaladin nods.  "Very well.  Your - father and brother are well?  There have been no further attacks by the Assassin in White while I've been lying here?"

"My father is - busy, but in good health.  As for Adolin, he had himself locked in prison shortly after you were, and helped to carry you here when you fell ill.  He seems -" Renarin pauses, thinking of his brother at the feast, a beat slower in conversation than he normally was, the level of wine in his glass never decreasing.  "Recovered," he says at last, because is at least true.

Kaladin frowns.  "Why would he do that?" he murmurs to himself, then yawns hugely.

"We'll leave you to rest," Lirin says, the first time he has spoken since Kaladin turned away from him.  Renarin follows him to the door, glancing back at Kaladin once to see his manacled hands curled awkwardly on his chest in a tight, closed-in posture.  His eyes are still wide open and fixed on the ceiling, and - Renarin can't be sure in one look, but he thinks Kaladin's lips are moving.

Outside in the hall, he follows Lirin away from the door and its Bridge Four guard until the surgeon stops and turns.

"You called him 'sir'," he says, without preamble.  "Why?  You're a prince, and he's a darkeyes - surely you're ranked far higher than him."

"I - he's my commanding officer," Renarin replies, startled.  "Captain Kaladin commands Bridge Four, my father's guard, and when I asked he allowed me to join."

"Dalinar Kholin's guard..."  Lirin shakes his head.  "Protecting by killing."  The expression on his face is strange, a grimace that is almost a smile.

"You... know him," Renarin says slowly, putting pieces together as he speaks.  "You came when I told you his name, and you talk to him with familiarity.  But you're not a soldier and you're not a slave - did you teach him field medicine in Amaram's army?"

Lirin makes a harsh, hollow noise that Renarin realizes belatedly is a sort of laugh.

"No, Brightlord.  I -"  He stops, sucks in a breath, shifts his weight from foot to foot and back.  "He's my son."

It takes a moment for Renarin to realize what he said, and longer for him to comprehend it.  Somehow he had never realized that Kaladin had a family, had parents; he was so closed off about his past that Renarin had almost come to think of him as not having one.

"He... you don’t seem close," Renarin says.  For a moment he wonders if perhaps Lirin had been unkind to Kaladin as a child, but it doesn't fit with the tenderness he's shown.

"He was meant to come home years ago."  Lirin twists his hands together in an all-too-familiar anxious gesture.  "I don't think he ever expected to see me again, especially here.  I have never been fond of armies."

"You taught him medicine," Renarin realizes.  "He said - field medicine, but he knows more than that."

Lirin nods.  "As a boy he was my apprentice.  I did my best to teach him how to save lives, much good it did in the end."

"He's saved thousands of lives," Renarin says fiercely, the words unusually quick and sharp.  "Every bridgeman in this camp is free because of him, and he protected the king from the Assassin in White."

Lirin's eyes widen, and he looks at Renarin with surprise.  Then he grunts, a reaction so like Kaladin that Renarin almost laughs at the similarity.

"Did he, now."  His voice is a monotone.

"Yes," Renarin says firmly.  "He's done good here."  He thinks of the expression on Kaladin's face when he asked to join Bridge Four, and the feeling of relief in his chest when the Captain agreed.

"Well."  In the pause Lirin straightens his spine, seeming to gather himself.  "We can only hope he will continue to do so, then."

"Do you know why he's ill?" Renarin asks.

"No."  Lirin glances back down the hall to Kaladin's door.  "Fever is a symptom, but he doesn't match any cause I know.  There's little I can do except keep him comfortable.  He's in the Heralds' hands otherwise."

 _Stormblessed_ , Renarin thinks.   _If there was ever a time for that name to be proven true, Almighty, it is now_.

***

The next day Renarin stops by Kaladin's sickroom briefly in the morning, just long enough to tell Lirin that he won't be available to help that day.  The surgeon says nothing, but his nod is acknowledgement enough.

Renarin finds his brother in the first place he looks: the dueling grounds.  Adolin is running windsprints in full Plate, back and forth across one end of the sandy rectangle in endless repetition.  Renarin watches him from a distance, noting the postures of the blue-uniformed Bridge Four guards assigned to Adolin today: still upright and professional, but with sagging shoulders.  They've been there for a while - and Adolin has probably been running the entire time.  Zahel has put Renarin to similar exercises, the power of the Plate fighting against the instability of the sand, meant to simultaneously build up his strength and show him the armor's limitations.  The swordsmaster had also warned him that over-extending his muscles in Plate could leave him unable to walk for days.  There's no doubt in his mind that Adolin knows this, and yet he's here anyway.

"Brother!" Renarin calls as he approaches, and Adolin halts at the end of one sprint and raises his visor to look around.  He waves to Renarin, then lowers the visor again and sinks into a crouch, ready to begin the next lap.  Renarin steps out directly into his path.

"Adolin, can we talk?"  This time when Adolin removes his visor there's a frown on his face.  He nods, though, and pulls off his helmet entirely.

"Up on the roof?" he suggests, and at Renarin's assent leads the way, their guards trailing behind just out of earshot.

They sit together on the stone roof, not quite close enough for Renarin's elbow to brush Adolin's armor, but close enough that he can smell his brother's sweat.  His hair is visibly damp, and his breath is coming harder than it usually does when he trains.

"Captain Kaladin woke up yesterday," Renarin says, staring out across the training grounds.  He hears Adolin's shardplate clink as he shifts his weight.

"The surgeon doesn't know what made him ill, but he seemed better - asking questions about the guards, and about you and Father."

"That's good," Adolin says.  Renarin glances over at him for the first time and sees Adolin staring down at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists in their Plate gloves.

"You could visit him, if you're concerned," he says.  Adolin shakes his head minutely, and a drop of sweat rolls down his forehead and along his nose.

"I- respect him," he explains.  "He's an arrogant darkeyed upstart, but he's braver than anyone I've ever known, and a damned fine soldier.  I don't want to see him as - less than that."

There is a long pause, Adolin watching the lighteyes on the sand below and Renarin watching Adolin.

"I was planning to give him a Blade and Plate, after his release from prison," Adolin says.  "He's earned them ten times over; he certainly deserves them more than that eel Sadeas deserves to hold Oathbringer."

Renarin reaches out and lays a hand on his brother's forearm, though Adolin can't feel it through the Plate.  The metal is warm under his palm.

"You won't make him better by working yourself to exhaustion," he says.  "The fever will pass in time.  That man has survived far worse, and he's in good hands."  For a moment Renarin considers telling Adolin that the surgeon is Kaladin's father, but he decides against it.  Lirin had trusted him with that information so reluctantly, and Kaladin had said nothing at all.  Sharing it, even with Adolin, seemed like a breach of their trust.

Adolin curls and uncurls his hands a few more times, then sighs and rolls his shoulders as best he can.

"I suppose I should find something more useful to do, then," he says, standing up and offering Renarin a hand.  Renarin takes it carefully, and Adolin pulls him to his feet with utmost control.

They walk together back to the Kholin compound, and before they part ways Adolin claps Renarin on the shoulder, heartily enough that Renarin staggers a bit with the force.

"Thank you, brother," Adolin says.  There's something that might be hope on his face, in his eyes and the upturned corners of his mouth.  Renarin manages a small smile in return as Adolin turns and strides away down the corridor.

***

The guards in the hall are changing shifts when Renarin approaches Kaladin's sickroom, but there's something unusual about it.  Instead of the brisk handoff he's witnessed - and participated in - many times, the four members of Bridge Four are clustered together, speaking in hushed voices just outside the door.  Renarin frowns as he watches them, wondering what has changed.

When they step aside to let him inside, he knows.  The sickroom is windowless, made of Soulcast stone like the rest of the compound, and so the smell inside has nowhere to dissipate.  He coughs as he breathes in, the sour smell of bile filling his nose.  There's another scent underneath it - Renarin tries not to think too hard about that.  Fighting the urge to gag, he approaches the bed.

Lirin is leaning over Kaladin's head, daubing at his forehead with a damp cloth.  He glances up as Renarin coughs again at the intensity of the smell, and hands him the cloth.

"Good, you can take over.  I need to go empty this into the latrine."  He stands, gesturing Renarin to his seat, and Renarin sits automatically.  Lirin picks up a bowl whose contents slosh and carries it briskly out the door, leaving Renarin clenching his jaw against the memory of that nauseating sound.

He presses the cloth to Kaladin's forehead, dips it in a clean basin of water, presses again in mindless repetition.  With his hands occupied, his eyes wander over Kaladin's face and torso.  He takes in the rapid rise and fall of Kaladin's ribs, the faint blue tinge of his lips, the yellowish cast of his skin even in the clear white light of the diamond lamps.

"You could help him," says a quiet voice next to Renarin's ear.  He jerks his head around to look for the source and his hand jerks too, trailing the cloth over Kaladin's closed eyes and down his cheek.  In the air to Renarin's left is a constellation of floating sparks of light, its particles drifting slowly up and down like dust motes in a ray of sunshine.

Renarin turns his head back to the bed and begins tracing the cloth across Kaladin's collarbone.

"He is broken," the voice says again, but this time Renarin doesn't react.  He's used to this hallucination, though it only appeared recently: it hovers near him, it speaks, and eventually it goes away on its own.  The only time it's caused him any trouble was at the beginning, when he'd thought it was a spren and tried to swat it away from his face, only to realize that those around him saw nothing.

"You fix what is broken," says the hallucination, and as the only other occupant of the room is asleep Renarin laughs at that.

"I can barely stand to hold a Shardblade," he murmurs.  "If I have a gift for fixing, why don't I start with myself?"

The sparks float down the length of his arm to hover over Kaladin's chest, their particles moving up and down more rapidly than before.

"It is wrong."  The soft voice is tight and clipped, tense.  Renarin is almost impressed that his hallucinations have moods, though he wishes it hadn't fixated on the Shardblade.  The agonized screams he hears when he summons it are enough without another part of his brain condemning it out of hand.

Renarin sighs, moving back to Kaladin's head to cool his forehead again.  His breath is still coming in short bursts, making an almost percussive noise as it's pushed past his lips.

"Renarin-" the hallucination says, but stops when the door swings open again and Lirin returns, empty-handed and scowling.

"I don't know what happened," he says, pulling a chair up next to Renarin and placing his hand over Kaladin's throat.  He's still for a moment, mouth moving silently, and then sits back.  "His heartbeat is still elevated.  This morning he seemed to be doing better, even woke up again, but when I gave him water he couldn't keep it down."  He kneads his forehead with one hand.  "Everything else has gotten worse since then.  Whatever recovery he had made - it means nothing now."

Something glints in the corner of Renarin's eye.  He ignores it.

"The - his skin seems yellow," he says.

"His liver is failing," Lirin snaps, and pounds a fist on his knee.  "I should have seen this - should have prevented it."  He reaches out to touch Kaladin's forehead with the tips of his fingers, trailing them over his son's feverish skin and bowing his head.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

Kaladin's head rolls to the side, away from Lirin's hand, and the only sound in the room is the quick hiss of his breath.

***

Dalinar visits the sickroom the following day.

His absence has been more political than personal:  Elhokar is still peevish over Kaladin's behavior on the dueling sands, and Dalinar is treading a careful line between caring for a soldier under his command and defiance of his king.  Getting Kaladin rushed out of the prison, Renarin realizes, might well have occasioned another fight between his father and cousin.

But debts are owed to Kaladin Stormblessed and, for Dalinar Kholin, debts and the duty of a commander win out over politics.

He's there before Renarin, that day, settled in the chair which had habitually become Lirin's and displacing Lirin to Renarin's seat.  The room is tense and close, the nauseating smells of the day before only partly diminished by something spicy burning on a brazier in the corner.  The two men are silent.  Renarin slips through the door and then, unsure, stands against the wall just inside.

"Do you-"  Dalinar's voice grates oddly, and he coughs to clear his throat.  "He's a good man, a good soldier.  It would be a shame to lose him."

Lirin's eyes flick up at that, jumping to Renarin for a moment before fixing on Dalinar.  "Do you make a habit of imprisoning good soldiers, Highprince?"  The corners of his mouth are turned up, but the expression is not a smile.

"I prefer it to executing them for foolish behavior," Dalinar responded, meeting Lirin's gaze.

"Yes, well."  Lirin's tone is flat and he gestures to Kaladin, lying unconscious on the cot.  "That may yet be the outcome."

"Indeed, surgeon?  Am I to understand that your skills are not adequate to the task at hand?"  Renarin can't see his father's face, but he knows that tone, that chastisement; has seen it turned on Adolin before; has felt it a time or two himself.

"If anyone can help him, I can," Lirin says, drawing himself up straight.  "But I don't believe in false hope, and as I don't know the cause of his illness - I can only assume he contracted it in prison, though what could cause this is unknown to me - there is little I can do but make him comfortable and burn prayers for the Almighty's intervention."

There is silence between them for a long minute, in which Renarin lacing and unlacing his fingers is the only movement in the room.  Then Dalinar stands, abruptly, head still bent down.  He reaches out to touch the manacles still on Kaladin's wrists, sighs.

"Very well."  He lifts his head and nods to Lirin.  "Do what you can, then, and keep me apprised of his condition."

Lirin's eyes widen, and then he leans forward in what might be a seated version of a bow.  "I will, Brightlord."

Dalinar makes brief eye contact with Renarin as he leaves the room.  His jaw is tight, and his lips pressed thin.  The nod he gives Renarin is fleeting, and then he is gone.

***

The sparkling hallucination returns later that day, as Renarin attempts to tuck scraps of cloth under Kaladin's manacles to cushion his wrists.  They've grown bony and thin in his days of illness, so there's room for a bit of padding.  It's not much, but... he can feel Kaladin's pulse, slow and faint, and in the face of that Renarin feels compelled to do something.

Lirin is in the room too, making glyph notations on a sheet of paper, so the hallucination doesn't speak.  It tends not to, when people are around; a small blessing, Renarin supposes, that lets him appear less crazy than he actually is.  However, the cloud of sparkles is darting between Kaladin's head and his hands distractingly, and he can't help twitching every time the nexus of its light enters his vision.  Finally he closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, and runs through the names of the Heralds, and when he slowly opens his eyes again the hallucination is gone.  Renarin returns to his task.

There is a low dry sound which he at first assumes to be the door opening, but when he looks it’s closed.  The sound comes again – from Kaladin, though his lips barely move.

“En,” he says, drawing the syllable out.  “Ee-en.”

A rustling of paper comes from Lirin, but Renarin is too focused on Kaladin to pay much heed.  Kaladin’s tongue pushes out, swollen and slow, to wet his lips.  His swallowing is a protracted motion and his face pinches with pain.

“’m sorry, ee-en,” he rasps.  He pulls on the manacles, stretching trembling arms upwards as if towards someone in front of him.  The heavy metal soon weighs him down again.

“’m sorry,” he says again, and then, “Bro- brohe m’ p- promise.  Sorry.”

After a minute of silence, Renarin pours a cup of water and brings it to Kaladin, holding his chin in his hand and holding the cup to his lips.  His fingertips rest against the pulse point under Kaladin’s jaw and he can feel a fast, light heartbeat like the patter of soft rain on a roof.

Most of the water drains out of the sides of his mouth, but he swallows once.  That evening, Renarin asks Aunt Navani for a prayer of good health, and he burns it with his eyes stinging from more than smoke.

***

Adolin comes to his room early the next day, just as Renarin begins dressing.  It’s one of Renarin’s bad days: he woke himself up tossing and turning, and finds himself shivering convulsively at the feeling of fabric as he dresses.  It’s as if the body he’s in isn’t really his, and he doesn’t fit in it.  He drags his fingernails lightly down his arms, but even though his skin feels like it should slough off at a touch, it does not.  Adolin is one of, if not _the_ , only people who sees him like this and still sees a person.

He lets Adolin in without a word, holding his muscles trembling but still as long as the door is open and the guards can see, convulsing with a wave of shakes as soon as his brother closes it.  Adolin waits until the wave passes, then wraps a gentle and supportive arm around him and walks him to the bed.  They sit in silence until Renarin regains command of his hands, and Adolin passes him his box from the bedside table.  Then, its clicking as a backdrop, Adolin speaks.

“He’s not getting better, is he?”

Renarin’s hands freeze – a moment, but it’s a break in the rhythm of the box.  He shakes his head, then goes back to opening and closing it.

“He’s getting worse.”  Not a question this time: Adolin says flatly.  “Does the surgeon know how long?”

Renarin shakes his head again, then swallows.  “He can’t – can’t take water.  Lirin says not long, without that, and Heralds know what else is wrong.  Maybe three days.  Maybe less.”

Without looking, Renarin can feel Adolin slump next to him, proudly-held soldier’s shoulders dropping in defeat.  His brother draws in a shaky breath.  Renarin cuts his eyes sideways to see that he’s staring at his hands with a glazed, lost expression: Adolin, proud and confident, is not accustomed to being powerless.  Renarin is.

For a moment he considers telling Adolin everything: the visions, the sparkling hallucination, the screams he hears when he touches a Shardblade, his desperation to retain control of his own mind.  They are powerless together now; Adolin no longer the ideal heir and Renarin no longer the son who can never measure up.  And perhaps Adolin could help him, somehow –

But of course, he couldn’t.  Renarin knows, like he knows that Highstorms come from the east, that the frailty of his mind cannot be fixed.  Anyhow, at a time like this Adolin hardly needs more to worry over.

What he does instead is to reach out, setting one hand lightly over his brother’s on the edge of the bed.  Adolin glances at him, but Renarin stares forward instead of meeting his eyes.  His fingers, though, tighten around Adolin’s, and after a moment Adolin squeezes back.

***

That day Kaladin’s skin is unnaturally hot and he tosses and turns, convulsing against the restraints on his limbs.  Renarin wipes bile from the corners of the bridgeman’s mouth and tries not to hear the gurgling of every hard-fought breath.

When he leaves that evening, pink foam has replaced bile on Kaladin’s lips.

***

Captain Kaladin Stormblessed does not survive the night.

Renarin passes Lirin in the hall and wishes he hadn’t.  The surgeon’s eyes are bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, and he stares at the world ahead of him like it’s an indistinct painting and not reality at all.  After they walk by each other Renarin hears Lirin’s footsteps stop, and he turns to see him slump sideways against the wall, raising his hands to his face.  Renarin moves away as quickly as he can.

The pyre is laid in midmorning, allowing time for the body to be cleaned and dressed in a fresh uniform.  Four of the bridge crew – Teft and Rock in the lead, Moash and Skar behind – carry Kaladin out on a stretcher.  His eyes are closed, wrists and ankles unbound, hands crossed over his chest; the most peaceful Renarin has seen him in days.   They carry him through the small crowd to the pyre and gently, reverently, slide the body off of the stretcher onto it.  Lopen comes up behind and drives a spear through the stacked wood into the ground, point up and glinting in the sunlight.  Then all five bridgemen slip back into the ring of watchers.

Dalinar lays flame to the pyre and it catches fast, flames obscuring all but the spear’s tip.  Renarin clenches his hands in front of him, determined to do Kaladin honor by watching without wavering.  It is, in the end, the only thing he can do.

As the pyre burns, a lone windspren spirals up through the sparks, carrying them higher and higher until they vanish into the blue and stormless sky.

 


End file.
